If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my fourteenth book called ‘Travellers’ has been released. It’s the tenth book in ‘The Island Connection’ series. Here’s a bit about it.

Travellers

Travellers arrive unseen and stay hidden for millions of years until their accidental discovery revives their chances of survival. But what will they do with their new-found freedom, if indeed they can escape their prison? The discovery of a mysterious pod that glistens black during the day and glows red at night sets people’s imaginations running wild. Soon, the mysterious object becomes the focus of attention for the world’s media. But does the pod contain anything? And if so, what? What are Travellers? Some people know the facts, but they dare not speak out. “I wonder what people would think if they knew what we were enabling?” she said. “I think they would string us up quicker than you could say ‘traitor’,” the tall man replied. “I don’t suppose that many would realise that we are gambling with the future of the planet.”

TRAVELLERS

After a further five minutes of digging, Jimmy raised one eyebrow, causing his brow to pucker. Something didn’t sit right. Every time he dragged his bucket back, it scraped on something which, at a glance, didn’t look like metal or plastic, but wasn’t sandstone either. An experienced digger driver like Jimmy was like an artist. He could feel the soil and the rock and the obstructions through the hydraulic levers that he manipulated with just the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t see what was causing the blockage because each time he scooped out sandstone, a stream of crumbled soil ran back into the hole to cover the obstruction. Jimmy jumped down from his cab, grabbed a shovel, and dropped down into the hole. He scraped at the loose earth and shovelled it to one side.

What he found was something with a smooth surface that looked like some sort of plastic, but which shimmered and flashed a little in the sunlight. A bit like glittery unicorn dust when his six-year-old daughter had finished playing with her make-up kit. The only trouble was that this unicorn dust held no bright colours. It was black as night, yet reflected the sunlight. Jimmy rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. Flashing black light wasn’t something his brain could unscramble. And whatever the object was, it was rounded. Not a small pipe like a standard 100mm or 150mm uPVC drain. If it was something circular, it was far bigger than that, judging from the slow radius.

“Everything alright, Jimmy?”

The voice belonged to Stitcher, the site foreman. Not many knew his real name, but everyone called him Stitcher on account of the fact that a surgeon had thrown his heart away and given him a new one from a donor in Manchester. When sewing him back up, the surgeon had left Cecil English with a considerable scar and a new nickname.

“Yeah, I guess everything’s okay,” Jimmy said, “but damned if I know what this is, and close up it’s got these dark flashes bouncing round on it to it. There’s some weird shit going on here.”

Stitcher peered down into the hole. He had been a digger driver himself in his day, so knew that there was nothing unusual about getting out of the cab to take a closer look at the dig. “It looks like it’s plastic from here.”

“True, but I’m now four feet down in virgin sandstone. How would something plastic get here?”

“You mean it’s not old backfill that you’ve been digging out?”

“No. Apart from a bit of topsoil, I’ve pulled out nothing but unspoiled sandstone so far. There’s no signs of any previous digging and filling. But that doesn’t make sense since plastic has only been used in the building trade for the last fifty years. How does something big and plastic turn up under four feet of virgin sandstone? And what the hell are these flashes of black light?”

“Damned if I know, old son. Black light doesn’t make sense. It was just public toilets here before we began digging, wasn’t it?”

“Toilets, sailors’ shelter, the yacht club, some old garages and a storage yard. Demolition team got rid of them all in a week flat. The sailors’ shelter and the yacht club have been relocated down the side of the marina and they plan building new public loos when this new treatment plant is finished. The demolition guys cleared all the rubble away and left us with a clean site. One of the easiest to work on too, being right next to the promenade. I’ve already ripped out all the drains that served the old buildings. They were less than a couple of feet down.”

“Could it be a septic tank or cesspit?”

“No. Like I say, I’m pulling out virgin rock. Stitcher. Whatever it is, it wasn’t buried here and covered over again. It sort of grew here!”

“You sure of that?”

“Positive. Come take a look yourself.”

“No, I trust your judgment, Jimmy. Why not dig round the thing for the moment? See how far it goes and how deep. That way we’ll get some idea of size and can decide what to do with it.”

Jimmy knelt down and slowly moved his hand towards the object, expecting to get an electric shock at any moment. But his hand passed through the layer of black flashes with nothing more than a slight tingle. He tapped on the plastic. “Sounds hollow. There’s a sort of echo. Do we need to call anyone?”

“No, let’s expose it a bit first, then we can decide.”

“I’ve banged it a few times with the bucket. What happens if I damage it?”

Stitcher laughed. “I’ve seen you get your bucket to within a centimetre of an object, Jimmy. The only reason you’d damage something is if you meant to. Perhaps best we take a bit of care now we know it’s there, eh?”

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my twelfth book called ‘Picasso’s Secret’ has been released. ‘Picasso’s Secret’ is the 9th book in ‘The Island Connection’ series. Here’s a bit about it.

Picasso’s Secret -‘The Island Connection 9’

Picasso’s Secret begins with the search for a stolen painting, but leads Penny Chakyar and her new partner in the police, Josh Walker, down various paths that eventually expose the island’s biggest drugs dealer. But what of the painting? And who is really the top man when it comes to drugs on the Isle of Man? Could it be that Boris knows more than he is saying? Meanwhile, Maddi Gathercole’s life is getting more complicated by the minute. She’s on a roundabout and can’t get off. But what of Picasso’s Secret? Where is it and who’s got it?

PICASSO’S SECRET

Boris sat alone in the Greek restaurant in a neighbourhood that you might call middle class if you were using a ghetto as your starting point. He had bought the business to rinse some of the cash he was making from his hard drugs network. The restaurant smelled of lamb and garlic – and chip oil. If Boris had eaten in the Chinese restaurant over the road, it would have smelled of dim sum and fried pork – and chip oil. He would also have been served by a waiter whose default expression was disdain. Boris owned that restaurant too.

The Greek was a small eating place with a few tables and chairs on either side of the long, narrow room, as you approached the counter. The scuffed lino would have benefited from a mop and some hot soapy water. Or maybe some new lino. The menu board over the counter showed pictures of things on sticks and meat that looked long past its sell-by date.

Boris sprinkled his pork gyro pita with salt. Thin slices of seasoned pork, stacked and cooked on a vertical rotisserie, served on a warm pita bread, filled with fries, tomatoes, onions, and tzatziki sauce. Considering the state of the premises, it was surprisingly good. But Boris already knew that.

When two men in dark suits walked in, Boris didn’t bother to look up. “Sit down,” he said, wiping grease off his lips with a paper serviette. “You want anything?”

“No.” From both men in unison.

Boris continued to chow down on his food, chewing with his mouth open and breathing through his nose. He swallowed, straightened up on his chair and punched the centre of his chest. “Fucking heartburn. It’s going to fucking kill me one day.”

The two men looked at him but said nothing. The older of the two had silver hair, wore a tailored navy suit, an expensive overcoat, and a Rolex that would have bought the restaurant outright. Boris looked up and shook his head at the shirts and suit. You can’t buy class off a peg, but he knew that appearances counted for everything, which is why he dressed down and dressed sloppy. His t-shirt contoured around his body like wet Kleenex.

Boris played his cards close to his chest and nobody could ever have guessed his true wealth and the extent of his influence over other people’s lives. The Greek and the Chinese restaurants weren’t the only businesses he owned on the island. Not by a long way. In fact, if the wind was right, a pedestrian could catch the scent of cumin, garam masala, and coriander wafting down the street from the Indian restaurant that Boris also owned.

“Nice watch,” Boris said. “You buy it or nick it?”

“I don’t steal.”

“Of course not. I’m paying you so fucking much, you could probably afford a second one.”

“I have a second one.”

Boris laughed, showing the remains of his unswallowed pork gyro pita. “Christ, you are a bloody tart, Marcus. God knows how you’ve got the courage to walk down dark alleys wearing all that gold. When they see you coming you must look like a mugger’s pension scheme.”

“A mugger would get a nasty shock then, wouldn’t he? Is this what the meeting is about? A couple of knock-off watches?”

“No, gentlemen, I don’t give a monkey’s toss what you steal in Liverpool. Just keep off my patch, that’s all.”

“The Isle of Man isn’t a patch,” the other man said. “It’s an allotment. There’s nothing worth anything over here.”

Boris knew otherwise, but let the comment go. He guarded information such as that like a dog guards a well-chewed bone. “Okay,” he said, “it looks like your warning to Nathan Owen has worked. He’s now buying from me. Or at least he will be when he learns to walk again. You did a good job there. You also did well with Dean Glover. I don’t know what you did, but he’s already phoned me to apologise and he sounded way too scared to lie. But I need you to up the ante with Jim. He’s not come up with the money yet and I think he’s taking the piss.”

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my tenth book called ‘The Platinum Pirate’ has been released. Here’s a bit about it.

The Platinum Pirate -‘The Island Connection #8’

Joseph Adebayo is looking for investment money for The Foundation when he is savagely beaten by his fellow diners. The incident sees DI Sarah Flemons and DC Penny Chakyar investigating at The Foundation where a previous mystery is solved but a new mystery comes to light. Meanwhile, Al Callow leads a group of people who steal £15 million of platinum. But all is not as it seems, and Al’s wife, Paula, has other ideas. The owner of the platinum wants his precious metal back and hires The Vicar to get the information he needs. However, he misjudges events and finds that his platinum has taken on a strange new shape. Meanwhile, Craig, a hard-drinking, hard-hitting Australian tries to steal the platinum but Al is wise to him as Craig soon discovers. And while everybody is chasing their tails, Al and his new love, Carla, are having a ball.

THE PLATINUM PIRATE

After a few moments, two cars approached. Al recognised the lead car as Tyler’s flashy Jag. The angle of the sun and the tinted windows turned the men inside into dark shapes. It was impossible to see if anybody was in the back: there could easily be another guy or two back there. Both cars turned onto the cobbled surface of the breakwater and drew to a halt a few metres from him. Tyler and a heavy-built man with a shaved head and a tattoo curling behind his right ear and rolling down his neck stepped from the first car. Mr Tattoo stood with legs apart then shuffled forwards like a boxer preparing to spa. The rear doors opened and two more heavyweights emerged.

Stan Clague and Al’s wife, Paula, stepped out of the smaller car behind. Nicholas Tyler approached Al.

“Well now, Mr Callow, what do we make of this then?”

“Make of what, Tyler?”

“What do we make of the fact that you are outnumbered?”

“Numbers count for nothing, Tyler. Agility, strength, speed: they all count for something though. And what are Marty Feldman and my ex-wife doing here? They have nothing more to do with this.”

Paula said, “I needed to come to some agreement with you, Al, but you’ve cut me off completely—”

“Well what the hell do you expect, you stupid bitch. You were double-dealing me. I have copies of all the emails between you, Tyler and Clarence the Cross-Eyed Lion here. So I simply planned and executed a double-cross of my own. Now, let me try again. What the hell are you doing here?”

Paula looked down at the ground. “I came to try and talk you into giving Mr Tyler his platinum back. He’ll pay you according to the original deal, and there’ll be no ill feelings.”

“You’re bloody joking aren’t you? You wasted your time coming here to say that?”

“I also came to apologise for Bruce.”

“What? What’s with Bruce?”

“He’s dead,” Tyler said. “Which is how we knew that you’d be here now, waiting for your fellow criminals.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t want anything like that to happen,” Paula said.

Al shook his head. “You played with the big boys, Paula, and you got your fingers burned. Tough shit. Anything else you want to say to me?”

“There is nothing I can say that you will want to hear, so I think it’s best if I don’t say anything,” she sighed.

“How convenient,” Al snorted. “I’d hate to make you feel uncomfortable in any way for being a double-crossing bitch.”

Nicholas Tyler addressed himself to Stan Clague. “Get her out of the way, Stan. I only let her come because I thought it might convince Callow to change his mind.”

“That plan’s not working too well then, is it?” Al said, as Stan and Paula reversed their car along the breakwater. “So you’ve killed Bruce and now you plan to kill me too, eh?”

“Certainly not,” Tyler said. “You wouldn’t be standing there brazen and bold if you didn’t have information about me somewhere – to be found only in the event of your untimely death of course.”

Al nodded and smiled.

“So I’m here simply to take back what belongs to me. My three associates are here to ensure that you don’t stop me from boarding your boat.”

“Go ahead,” Al said. “Knock yourself out.”

Nicholas Tyler nodded to the three heavyweights. “Keep an eye on Mr Callow for me. If he tries to follow me, please use force to detain him.”

If you’ve followed this blog, you’ll be aware that I mix personal interest with purely food and culinary content. One of my hobbies is writing and my ninth book called ‘Chicken Rock’ has been released. I love scuba diving so I used my knowledge of the sport to create a scenario for the book. Here’s a bit about it.

Chicken Rock -‘The Island Connection 7’

Chicken Rock doesn’t figure in Sarah and her police partner Penny’s thoughts when they go on an advanced drift dive. However, they are separated from the other divers by whirling currents and find themselves lost at sea in a thick mist. Their only chance of survival is to get to Chicken Rock, a tiny reef surrounded by vicious tidal surges and whirling vortexes. Can they survive the experience? Meanwhile, at The Foundation, Joseph Adebayo has broken the rules and his punishment is to spend two weeks in solitary confinement. But Joseph is tempted by a possible escape route that is more dangerous than he can imagine – as he discovers when the water covers his head.

CHICKEN ROCK

She stopped and looked to her left. Then she blinked, pushed down her mask, and looked again. The mist was rolling across the sea in great clouds but, between the clouds, she thought she had seen a high tower. If that were so, it could only be the Chicken Rock lighthouse.

Penny followed her gaze without saying anything and suddenly, there it was, about one hundred metres in front of them, but they were being relentlessly swept past it by the strong current. Sarah shouted, “Swim Penny. Swim for all you are worth. It’s right there.”

Both women found a new resolve, but the tidal flow was fighting them every second and they were no match for it as the lighthouse began to slide away to their right. Yet many extremely strong and complex currents met at Chicken Rock – a criss-crossing of thundering waters, forever merging and parting. And without realising it was happening, they were being swept in a wide circle that looked likely to take them close to the jagged rocks. “Keep going,” Sarah yelled, “We can do it.” And suddenly, without knowing how, Penny was in front of her, being dragged through the water like a piece of lightweight flotsam by a massive whirlpool.

Sarah was dragged along too, both by the whirlpool and by the buddy line attached to her wrist that linked her and Penny together. She struggled to try and catch up but she was rolled to one side over the edge of a huge upsurge on the outside limits of the vortex. She was bowled over by the angry, churning waters and knew she wasn’t going to make the rocks: the spinning waters were pulling her in to the centre and down. Then her sideways progress was halted with an abruptness that made her gasp. She found herself held solidly in place with the whirlpool pushing the swirling waters over her face.

When she managed to lift her head enough to gasp a quick breath and look above the churning water, she could see that Penny was gripping a small outcrop of rock with just one hand. Her other hand, the one with the buddy line attached to her wrist, was outstretched towards Sarah who was being relentlessly sucked towards the centre of the maelstrom. Sarah kicked her legs as hard as she could with one last massive expenditure of energy. Centimetre by painful centimetre, she seemed to make progress towards the smaller woman. Then a wall of water pushed her backwards towards the heart of the whirlpool and she went under.

Sarah couldn’t breath. She thrashed beneath the surface, choking on the icy cold water and trying desperately to reach the surface. She clawed at the water and forced herself up, but the vortex had a different plan for her and pulled her back down again. Just as she thought she must inhale, her head broke into the daylight and she gasped for breath. Penny was still holding tight to the rocks with one hand.

“BCD,” Penny screamed. “Inflate your BCD.”

The buoyancy control device, worn like a vest, was normally inflated from the air tanks that Penny and Sarah had jettisoned. Sarah grabbed the manual mouthpiece and took a deep breath, just as she was sucked below the surface again. At the same time that she blew the full contents of her lungs into the tube, she kicked as hard as she could with her legs, knowing that her life depended on it.